End of August

Such a nice summer it’s been:
the dawn laps at the public pool
with the other graying swimmers, our own
little Olympics every morning, racing old age
and death (who seems to be
on steroids, but what else is new).

The trip to Europe, which has already
become a handful of memories
of cobblestones and cathedrals, the same
charming dinner over and over.

The twilight barbecues—they were lovely,
with friends and wine on the sun porch,
our laughter rising into the summer sky
to vanish like smoke among the owls and stars.

Who were we, the people we were this summer?
I liked us, with our secret jokes, our garden project,
and long walks after dinner.
I liked the heat of us, lying all night together.

The people we are next summer
will miss us. They’ll sit up late
on the porch with a glass of wine,
the crickets going at it, talking about us.
Turning us into stories.

~ George Bilgere

 Learn more about George Bilgere and his poems of truth, wistfulness and wry humor here: http://clevelandartsprize.org/awardees/george_bilgere.html.